Highway Robbery

Highway Robbery

I stepped into an old store today, one of those places that still smells like dust and linoleum, where the shelves lean slightly and the fluorescent lights hum like they’ve been tired for decades. Something about the place stirred a memory—sharp and unsettling. I realized, standing there in the quiet, that when I was young, the stores my grandmother traded with were robbing her blind. Not with guns or threats, but with inflated prices, deceptive deals, and the kind of quiet exploitation that preys on trust and limited options.

My grandmother was a proud woman. She didn’t ask for much, and she didn’t complain. She shopped at the same stores for years, believing in loyalty and fairness. But looking back now, with adult eyes and a sharper understanding of economics and ethics, I see how those stores took advantage of her. They charged more than they should have, offered less than they promised, and smiled while doing it. It was highway robbery—just dressed in polite customer service and small-town familiarity.

That realization opened a floodgate of memories. I remembered how my dad used to drop my mother, my sister, and me off at the store. He’d pull up in the car, barely say a word, and drive off as we walked inside. My mother would shop slowly, carefully, stretching every dollar like it was sacred. When she was done, she’d head to the payphone near the entrance, dig into her purse for change, and call my dad to come pick us up.It was a routine, almost ritualistic. But even as a child, I felt the weight of it. The waiting. The silence. The sense that something was missing—not just convenience, but care. I never asked why he didn’t stay or help. I just accepted it, like so many things children absorb without question.

One day, I remember my mother deciding we’d walk to Pizza Hut instead of waiting. It was a long walk—at least four miles from the house. The sun was high, the pavement hot, and my sister and I trailed behind her, trying to keep up. We were tired, but we didn’t complain. We were used to walking. Used to making do.

I remember the smell of pizza when we finally arrived, the cool air inside the restaurant, the way my mother smiled as she ordered for us. It felt like a reward, a small escape from the grind. But even then, I wondered—why didn’t my dad take us? Why didn’t he drive us there, sit with us, share a meal?

That question lingered for years. It wasn’t just about the walk or the pizza. It was about presence. About being seen and cared for. About the quiet gaps in love that children notice but don’t know how to name.

As I stood in that old store today, I felt the sting of those memories. The injustice of my grandmother being overcharged. The loneliness of waiting by the payphone. The ache in my legs from that long walk to Pizza Hut. And the deeper ache in my heart from wondering why my father chose distance over connection.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was dealing with his own battles. Maybe he thought he was doing enough. But as a child, I didn’t understand those maybes. I only knew what I felt—and what I didn’t feel.

Now, as a grown man, I carry those memories like stones in my pocket. Heavy, but familiar. They’ve shaped me, taught me to pay attention to the small injustices, the quiet neglects, the moments that matter. They’ve taught me to be present, to ask questions, to challenge systems that exploit the vulnerable.

And they’ve taught me to honor my grandmother’s resilience, my mother’s strength, and my own journey toward understanding.

Highway robbery isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always come with ski masks or sirens. Sometimes it’s quiet—subtle—woven into the fabric of daily life. It hides in the price tags of corner stores, in the way they smiled at my grandmother while charging her double for half the worth. She didn’t know. She trusted. And trust, in the wrong hands, is currency for thieves.

I see it now. I see how they robbed her with politeness, how they robbed my mother with silence, how they robbed me with absence.

I remember the payphone. The one my mother used to call my dad after shopping with pennies and prayer. She’d dig through her purse, find the right change, and wait for a ride that felt more like a favor than a duty.

And I remember that walk to Pizza Hut. Four miles. Sun blazing. My sister and I trailing behind, our feet aching, but our hearts too young to question why.

Why didn’t he take us?

Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was busy. Or maybe—just maybe—he was sipping his favorite drink, Seagram gin, letting the buzz drown out the sound of responsibility.

That’s not a distant memory. That’s a close echo. A whisper that still lingers in the corners of my mind.

Because highway robbery isn’t just about money. It’s about time stolen. Love withheld. Presence denied.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Once you name it, you can begin to heal.